Invisible blank faces are pouring in, slowly the empty seats are filled. You’re almost ready.

My fingers grip supple wood, gently edge bow against string. A tentative testing note, silent under the clamour of other stories.

They are growing quiet. The tension is beginning to muster, the air of the discord to come hangs heavy in the air as the first note strains to be played.

And begin, gently at first, ease them in.

You’re walking. The grass is green at your feet and the air feels cool, crisp. The others join and a harmony begins, your features are growing; develop a body of your own. My child, welcome to the world.

We are still in the prelude, and the audience watches us, watches you, begin your journey. With new life feel your senses become defined as the wind players give you sensation. Clean, gentle grass, softer than anyone has ever known, hear the mournful echo of deepening stories long past and yet to come. That is the power of the winds. A breeze that tousles and toys, a breeze for romance or folly.

My music, all around you, whispers the story you’ll tell. You are an image told only through music, but you are beautiful all the same.

Enter the violins. Angry clamours and distant promises of violence to come. The audience are shocked, and I can hear the fear in your gait. Even in their haste they give you depth, the lines of experience growing across your brow. You are running. Running so fast.

What are you running from? I have no instrument for that. Do not look over your shoulder, but flee the promises the wind makes of their coming. They are coming, they are coming and your fear is not misplaced. The winds give life, but coupled with the violins the winds can bring such sorrows.

My hands are flying, my fingers dance to a hundred different stories, locking yours into being. I still don’t know how this story ends. Wherever the music takes me, my love. I pray for us both is a good one.

The violins are toying with you again. Dark harmonies and deep notes throw you through the maelstrom. I can but whimper my bow as they catch your story, pull it to breaking and then growing the refrain, climbing and climbing. We’re getting closer now.

Run! The only action my panicked notes can give you, run! My fingers a flurry of positions and swipes as I ride the crashing waves of the orchestra with you. My fury is rising, and the violins diplomatically retreat. I have you now, sweet child, but do not feel safe. I have built this wave, and we are reaching the peak.

If I stop now you’ll be safe, but the music will die and your glass facsimile of life will fall and shatter. I won’t hear another life end in a wailing falter.

Building, building, we are ever building. The crescendo approaches, how do I pull you down safely? How do I save the symphony now?

Help me, love! Run, build speed with the wave as I pull crashing notes upon it. The kindly winds understand, I can hear you running. No, flying; look how you soar! Pay no heed to the unending strum of the waiting violins. I must keep building, or they will reclaim the stage and pull your course, do not fall upon their sharp notes!

See the audience? They are scared for you. They can all see you now, they listen with aural regard at your majestic flight. We have them enraptured, we cannot disappoint them.

Here we are! My love, are you still there? There is nothing but the music now, I cannot see you in the harmonic storm!

The crescendo! Can you feel it? It is crashing all around, bleeding through the walls and tearing at the lines of audible unreality! Where are we, where have we gone?

It has me! I’m here, my child, here in the music. Mind and soul are dearly departed to the endless rhythm, fly with me! Let me bring you down, gently now.

Still my bleeding fingers. The violins are dazed, exiled to background detail. With soft swaying notes, ease gently down and lie still. Your heart is beating so fast, I’m stunned you didn’t burst. Relax the notes, calm the thumping rhythm.

There we go. The winds are dying, the strings are stilling, the climax is over. Now all that remains is to recover the audience from their exhausted reverie.

With a final pull, the music dies. Welcome to the world my love, goodbye.